Colours
by Kid9535
Summary: It was a sadistic thought that colours of Christmas could be so different than that of the children's version. When I was rolling this story in my mind I could envision being kicked out of fairytale land. Birthday and Christmas gift for Mello. Slight OOC


A/N: Just a little cynical oneshot. I was thinking of making this into a poem to mock Cricket's contest. I want to join but I can't draw and sappy stories make me cringe. The new contest is about poetry and a beautiful moment you experience during the holiday season. I decided that reality was best. I'm probably not gonna send this in. They might freak. Plus it's cheesy.

Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note.

**Colours**

I am skeptical about Christmas colours for many reasons.

I see green but it's not from trees. It is with envy as I gaze at the others. They are showing off their new toys. A sleigh from St. Nick, a new gameboy from Santa and a laptop from their parents.

I see red, but it's not from mistletoe. It is from the others. They are taunting, their irritating voices growing louder and louder as I restrain myself, choosing instead to wrap that meager coat around my body. Salvage the warmth, forget the mockery. They know nothing.

I feel something unfamiliar, a growing sensation. It is not warmth, not love. A fist has connected with my solar plexus and I find my leg connected to my opponent's stomach. I had not realized I had moved.

I see lights, not from trees. Not even from the streetlamps. They blind me from within my eyelids and behind that mitten coated hand. They flash brightly and multi-coloured. I wish I could smile but I have lost all feeling.

I see white, it is not snow. Not the bitter flakes that drift almost melancholy like from the sky. It is the only colour I see before the black overwhelms me and I drift into unconsciousness.

I awaken and the first thing I see is green. I wish, I hope desperately it is a tree. A tree standing in the middle of the stained living room floor where it is cold and cluttered with the boxes of old pizza that inhabit my every waking moment and the empty beer cans that inhabit my parents'. It is not. But it does come accompanied with its very own foul-smelling ornaments. Each of which has a story to tell, none of which is heart-warming.

I see red, not the same as before but it gathers in a puddle. A metallic taste in my mouth, it does not remind me of chicken but the acid of the green does leave a scorching path down my throat. A shadow a register only as my father stands above me. The familiar scent of alcohol and crack carried along with his smoky breath collides into my face.

I feel the growing sensation once more, they form across my back in thick red streaks. A tingling of liquid flows down my skin.

I see white. It is my mothers pale face, not the pale face of the Earth as the beautiful white layer encases it. She kneels before me as I register that my father has left the room. Dabbing slowly at the tears I hadn't known appeared and the blood that trickled down my wounds.

Years pass, I see another Christmas. I see another array of colours.

I see green, the street lights flashing, they warn, but they are not heeded.

I see red, the same red I have seen a year ago, but it is not in a puddle, it is in a splatter. All over the screaming people, the screaming machines. All over the clear, clean cracked glass.

I feel a growing sensation. It is not the same. It is not pain. It is loss, it is hurt. I crumble to my knees as I watch the only remainders of my life leak out and fall apart in the middle of the road along with my drunken parents' corpses.

Noise, I hear a lot of noise. It is not cheering, it is not Christmas crackers. It is the echo of crumpling fenders and screaming. Painful screaming.

I see white. And again it is not snow. It is plastered with a chunky red plus sign. A bunch of men dash out and bundle the bodies into the vehicle.

I see lights. I hear sirens. Blue and red jump in front of my face, alternating their torment upon me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and I see black. It has never been a more peaceful colour.

'_Hey guys, hurry over here! The kid's passing out!'_

'_Holy crap, he's young, how'd you think he'll take the news?'_

'_Shit man, I dunno. Damn. Poor kid.'_

The voices begin to fade.

A year I awaken to a warm room.

I see red, the colour of my best friend hair. He laughs as he tears open a brightly coloured gift and grins in happiness.

I see green, the colour of the tree I have long dreamed about. It is adorned with tinsel, multi-coloured globes reflecting the joy in the room and a star, perched at the tip.

I see lights, bright ones that no longer cloud my vision. They hug the tree like a long time friend and embrace the fire with the gusto of a visiting relative.

I feel a growing sensation, no longer the hurtful ones before. But the liquid falls anyway. My best friend turns to me and inquires as to my well-being. I smile and say it is joy.

I see white, the colour of my strained acquaintance's hair and clothes and the falling dots outside the window.

I see black, the colour of my clothes that no longer reek of liquor and shirk in their duties of keeping me warm.

And the colours begin to mean something once more.

The End

A/N: That's Mello in case you were wondering. I was gonna write a toilet tribute for his birthday but I missed it cause I was away. Damn. Anyway, Merry Early Christmas and Happy Belated Birthday Mello.


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